Lonestrider
by steelmongoose
Summary: An apprentice blademaster takes on her first mission away from the walls of Orgrimmar. Amdist a fullscale war with the centaur and Alliance forays into Horde territory she must travel to Camp Aparaje and discover why all communciation from it has ceased.


**Chapter 1**

" Something must be done, that should be clear enough for all of you. "

There were rumbles of consent amongst those gathered, all orcs, all seated in a stone ring sunken several feet below the surface of the floor, strewn with tanned lion and zhevra hides to take the edge of the stone's chill off. A fire pit crackling in the middle between them all, sending smoke and drifting sparks towards the small hole in the chamber's ceiling above. The circular room that housed the meeting circle sat just outside Thrall's own throne chamber, a short hall that could be filled with warriors zealously guarding the Warchief's life connecting the two within the central stronghold. Indeed, some Thrall's own bodyguard, the Kor'kron elite, stood nearby even while the Warchief was away, while he was visiting that insufferable human woman Jaina Proudmoore of the Alliance in an interest of maintaining the tenuous pact the two nations shared. In his absence his top advisors and generals met to discuss pressing issues regarding the Horde's holdings at home and abroad.

The current topic was related to the massively increased centaur raids on Horde settlements, of the opportunistic quillboar who rushed in after a raid by the horse-men while the defenders were still tired and wounded. Before he had left Thrall had issued for massive reinforcements to be sent to the Crossroads, arguably the most important fortress in the Barrens, as well as lesser numbers to Camp Taurajo, the Mor'shan Rampart which guarded the border to Ashenvale, and Honor's Stand, another collection of towers and a picket wall along the foothills of the Stonetalon Mountain region. They would need those grunts and soon, Honor's Stand for instance manned by only a quarter of their usual fighting force after a massive, sweeping offensive by a unified centaur tribe. No one was being spared the centaur's wrath, not the harpies, not the quillboar, not even the goblin holdings to the north where they mined and dredged for minerals and oil with impunity. Normally, the Horde's enemies fighting amongst themselves would be a cause for toothy grins and a foot stomp of approval from those gathered, but the situation was threatening to spiral out of control, and not one of them gathered wanted to face the Warchief with the news that they could not hold the line in his absence.

" Camp Aparaje is such a small holding that it shouldn't merit much of our attention this day, my fellows, " one warlord stated dismissively, " there are much more pressing matters than a handful of settlers in a fledgling community. "

This one, Gorchak, was well-known for his sometimes cold appraisal of numbers in a situation, and it surprised no one that he would utter such a statement.

His assessment was not mirrored by his contemporaries, however, one of whom, a wizened old shaman with deep scars, said as much.

" That's like saying that our children are not our future, and should not merit any concern. The _Warchief_ wanted to strengthen our presence in the Stonetalons, and so ordered the settlement built, sending some two hundred tough and able tauren and some orcs to build a camp there, to reinforce our supply and trade routes too and from Sun Rock Retreat. I cannot find flaw with his reasoning, and certainly cannot see why we should do nothing to even confirm their status in this time of strife. No news from there in two weeks is troubling, and we are not so strong after the war at the Mount Hyjal that we can so easily throw away Horde lives like that. "

" I know the situation at Honor's Stand is grim, but cannot they spare even one able grunt to briefly scout the settlement and negate the need for a scouting party that will likely not even reach the battlements of the Crossroads such is the danger in those lands now? " This from the youngest among them, still a capable leader with many victories under his belt but his tusks still too white for the other's tastes from time-to-time.

" They need every axe and every spear they can raise there. It was only because of their extreme dedication that they survived at all, and any order we send to further weaken their position while still expecting them to hold it would be forcing the commander to make an impossible choice between two conflicting duties. I would not put another orc in such a position, " the old shaman spoke again, his words drawing a frustrated sigh from the young commander.

" All of this talk makes my hand itch for my axe handle, my shoulders to once again feel the heavy weight of iron armor hanging from them. We should not be here discussing and arguing, we should all be out there, with our troops, solving the problem with our blades and not our tongues, " a massive orc, a head taller than his fellows, growled unhappily.

" It is what forged us into what we are today, and the day I die in my bed is a day that the Warchief goes on bended knee to the humans. "

The others could certainly appreciate the warrior's fervor, though the thought of their leader, who had already been raised and held captive by humans for most of his life, surrendering to them did not sit well with those assembled. Thrak was like that though; big as a kodo, strong as the earth and as blunt as a club. He needed to think before he spoke, or simply think more and speak less.

" What if we could send one solider, one scout there. Swift and focused, on wolf-back perhaps, one of the raiders, " the young warlord offered, daring to speak again even though his suggestions had a habit of becoming unfeasible in the eyes of his elders.

" The only ones capable of such a thing are already on the front, getting vital information for our forces there. This is like your Honor's Stand idea except involving scouts from the Crossroads rather than the outpost. Don't shave a dog that no one wants and call it a new animal, " Gorchak snorted dismissively. The younger of the two started to rise in anger, glaring at the orc who had just insulted him, but clamped his mouth shut and sat back down. He was learning patience at least. A duel between Gorchak and himself would likely only have one out-come and another fresh-faced warlord would be joining their ranks a day after, promoted to replace the one lost.

" The young one's idea has merit, you are just not certain of all of your resources, " a new voice said, from one who up to this point had merely listened to the debate. Heads turned or shifted to gaze upon the speaker, who sat cross-legged apart from the rest of them upon a simple mat, his long, curving sword, an oddity of a weapon for most orcs, resting across his lap. Beside him a small censer burned a spicy and pungent incense, the delicate fingers of smoke rising from the bronze container partially obscuring he orc's already shadowed face.

" The great blademaster deigns to speaks, " Gorchak muttered under his breath.

" Indeed I do, great general. My hair is grey, my face wrinkled, my grip not as strong as it once was, yet I can still see, and speak, and _hear_, " the ancient orc rumbled, putting special emphasis on the last word. Gorchak said nothing, beefy arms crossing his chest and a steady and unwavering look of disinterest on his brutal face.

" Which resources do you speak of? " the shaman asked finally, perhaps one of the few that the distant orc would answer directly.

" I know of one who could get you the information you seek, or, if it were needed, fight off the centaur long enough to ensure the safety of the camp until another scout can be sent. "

Outside, it was just past midday, the blazing sun overhead causing writhing vapors of heat to rise from the red, rocky earth found throughout the eastern coast of Kalimdor, in a country called Durotar. Its soil and rugged beauty reminded those few orcs who could still remember it of their destroyed world Draenor, and its sometimes harsh and forbidding nature suited the needs of the new Horde well, not allowing them to become soft and complacent in a time of relative peace after the battle at Mount Hyjal against the Burning Legion. The country's capital, Orgrimmar, had grown from some crude huts and farms around a winding stretch of canyons to an important and expansive nexus of trade and information, massive stone walls capping the canyon at both ends while stone towers, barracks, shops and homes filled the in-between quite adequately. Under the intense sun few traveled about, instead conducting what trade they could while indoors or smithing, or speaking of battles past and those yet to come. Only a luckless few peons, porters, and gate guards had to endure the direct ferocity of the badlands sun, and even then because the lash of their superiors would sting far more than the sun would should they be found lax in their duties.

Near the city's rear gate, the one over-looking a large covered bridge that arced above the white rapids of the Southfury River that sidled close to the orcish city like an affectionate child before bounding off to the sea far away, a great, circular building sat. Hunting kodo, seeking water, enduring the heat, all of these things could make a warrior swift, cunning and tough, but no harsh reality of the land of Durotar could teach a warrior how to swing a weapon. For that, there were the many barracks in which those young hopefuls amongst the orc race who did not wish the inglorious and hard life of a peon trained, where the battle-hardened and skillful yelled, beat, and drilled the fundamentals of combat both armed and otherwise into the bodies and minds of those same hopefuls. Any not of the orc race could say that the training itself was some sort of extended combat, for the blades, while dulled, were real, and the trainers were not above meting out a few cuts here and there to show the effectiveness of a particular swing or punish the slow-witted.

This large round building was not one of these barracks, however. It was something a little different, a little more advanced. The rage in an orc's heart, once stoked, was a difficult thing to quench, to satisfy. Even with conflict readily available around them, the warriors of the Horde sometimes needed more, needed to see and smell blood to sate their own lust for it on an almost daily basis. This building was a gladiatorial pit, where, wielding the same dulled weapons, orcs fought, putting their skills to practice in a way that was just a hair-breadth away from real life-or-death conflict. The blood of countless orcs from doubly countless wounds inflicted in the inner ring had turned the floor of the arena into a rust-colored and caked affair, even the diligent work of peons to bring fresh sand and rake out the old still could not stifle the scent of sun-baked gore. The pit was silent at the moment, or nearly so, no screams echoing off the stone walls, no war cries splitting the air. Only one being made noise now, scarcely heard above the dull flapping of the kodo-hide sun shades, quiet and focused on their movements, their imaginary battle in a place that had seen so many real ones.

The practicing figure was undeniably an orc, the light green skin tinged with just a touch of yellow marking them as one whose hide was among the lighter of those found amongst the brutish race, though it had been tempered by the sun and was darker than it would have been in gentler, less sunny climes. The next thing undeniable about the lone figure was that it was female, her body rippling with the musculature that could grace the body of a well-built male human, yet was softened enough in distinctive places and ways with curves and bulges that were unerringly feminine. She was a warrior and a woman both, a relative rarity in the new Horde, and practically unheard of back in the days when they fought the Alliance openly, in years past. She wore only enough to preserve some modesty, wishing for every joint, tendon and muscle to move freely and unhindered, and even then it was only some strips of bleached linen fashioned into a loincloth and a few circuits of it binding her breasts. Her curving blade wove deceptively slow circles before her, its three foot length as honed and tempered as its wielder, the tip abruptly ending as if it had been shorn off, yet was purposefully designed so. The hit was simple and functional, barely qualifying as such, a diamond-shaped piece of iron fitted around where the gleaming blade met the leather-wrapped handle, keeping the balance and the weight near the handle for quick twists and turns. A low whistling was heard as the warblade swept through the air, guided by a hand that moved as if it possessed a tactical mind of its own, so used to the movements as it was.

The orc's eyes were unfocused and staring directly ahead, her left hand drawn up close to her body, held near her abdomen, a silent and still watcher waiting for its moment to assist its fellow in a two-handed slash or to reinforce for a parry. The imaginary foe left an opening and the blade moved fluidly into a vertical cut, a long but shallow one along the side, the curving blade then tipping downward and the awaiting left hand darting into action as it gripped near the square pommel of the sword, inclining a downward cross-body sweep harmlessly away from the wielder's body. The warblade then swept around, left hand still gripping the bottom half of the handle, for a cut down the shoulder, or to the side of the neck, leaving its place and returning to the warrior's abdomen, open palm facing towards the right as the blade swept out to the right, completing the arc. Right arm rigid to her side, blade turned so that its back faced her opponent the orc quickly reversed her grip by releasing and grabbing it within the blink of an eye and sweeping low in front of her, cutting at thighs or knees, then, when her right arm was across her body, her left hand once again joined the pommel of the sword, cradling it in the center of her hand and pushing forward and up in a stab to the unprotected neck, driving the keen steel all the way to the spine.

More attackers came at her and she back away, her spinning arcs with her blade quicker and more urgent, just as easily a cut as a defense, returning the blade to its original grip with a slight twist of her hand and forearm. The female orc, backed against the pit wall, suddenly twisted to the left in an armless cartwheel, dodging a powerful forward thrust, her two-handed grip slicing down in a cut that would sever the attacker's arms, or cut them so badly their grip would be enfeebled to the point of uselessness. Imaginary attackers poured at her and she twisted and wove through them, keeping her stance tight, her balance strictly controlled, her head as motionless as a cheetah as it ran in pursuit of its prey. Hopping up and rolling forward as if traveling across the back of a stumbling attacker the warrior's feet skidded on the loose sand, sending her into a tumble which, if she had possessed any less dexterity than she already did, would have left her prone and vulnerable.

An orcish curse hissed from between her clenched teeth at her stumble, at her loss of control. If her master was present she would have felt the sharp, burning slap of the flat of his blade across her back for such a mistake, though over the years she had found her own admonishments just as effective as she had grown in skill and apart from his direct teachings. As it was, she managed to end up in a crouch, one knee planted against the ground, sword before her and inverted, left hand pressed against the dull side of the blade, ready for a parry. The stumble had shaken her, and for a long moment all she could do was review the mistake over and over in her mind, trying to learn from it, to determine what she should have done differently. If her master and her own sense of self-discipline were harsh teachers, then the battlefield was tenfold that. Such a mistake against a similarly skilled opponent would have left her skin laid open to the bone and her blood gushing out from an almost casual sweep across her kidneys and spine. She wouldn't die instantly, but live only long enough to regret her final mistake. Her honor wouldn't let her life end like that. She owed her master, herself, and the Horde too much to die unless she was expected to, not a moment before she had achieved her objectives.

The female orc flicked the black braid of hair off of her left shoulder in irritation, the length reaching to about the middle of her back, traveling up to its point of origin, a carefully cropped circle of hair at the back of her skull, the rest of her scalp shaven clean and gleaming with perspiration in the hot, dry air. Sand had stuck to her slick skin as well from her stumble, causing the small muscles near the surface of the skin to twitch in irritation. Scowling the orc rose to her feet, head bowed, sword hanging limply at her side. Her breathing was deep and regular but she could feel the exhaustion creeping into her limbs, the stabbing pain of her tendons around her knees and shoulders. She wasn't ready yet. She had come very far but had so very far yet to go.

The stiff leather sheath for her weapon rested on the arena floor some distance from her, and, grumbling the whole way, she strode over to retrieve it, bending down to grasp its cured and black-dyed length. Her nearly silent tirade about her poor performance had distracted her enough that she did not hear that she was no longer alone in the pit until a suggestive whistle reached her ears. Her cheeks darkened with a potent mixture of anger and embarrassment as she stood up quickly and wheeled about, scabbard in her left hand and her sword still held in her right.

Her master could have crept up so close she would be able to feel his breath on her skin before she would hear him, so she knew it was not him well before she set eyes on the interloper. Her master wouldn't have whistled at her in such a demeaning manner either, her gender meaningless compared to the will to learn in his eyes. The newly arrived orc was a big one, looking to be one of those close to graduating from the barracks and join the Horde army proper. His skin was dark like leaves in twilight, his black hair shorn until little more than a tightly-tied topknot sat on the crest of his skull. The male orc's skin also bore many small scrapes and scars, some fairly recent, others not so, his body covered only with a rough hide kilt around his narrow waist and a pair of leather bracers. His weapon was a sufficiently wicked-looking axe slung across his back, adding credit to her pet theory that he was going to be heading to actual conflict very shortly. Young, trained, and hot-blooded. She knew where this was headed.

" The walls of the barracks said that a feisty young orc woman trained within this chamber during the days, and I see this rumor is true, much to my delight. I missed much of your routine, and that slender sword of yours is a laughable weapon in the hands of any orc, but I'm fairly certain that roll at the end was not planned, yes? "

The orc woman said nothing, cheeks still burning, yet making no move to cover herself or leave. The heavily-muscled orc took a few casual steps forward, reaching back to retrieve his broad-bladed weapon.

" This, this is a weapon befitting a warrior of the Horde, something to strike fear into the hearts of your foes, or simply striking the hearts of those too foolish to run. You, on the other hand could trim a nice roast of boar with your sword, I'm sure. Perhaps it could be prepared at my hut, by you, if you haven't wasted all your time with swordplay and actually know how to cook. "

The big orc continued to advance until he was an arm-and-a-half's length away from her, towering above her and making no effort to conceal where his eyes traveled.

" Then after a fitting supper, we two could find something else to do to while away the evening, something that doesn't necessarily require skill, merely that which birth has equipped us with already. "

The she-orc looked up into his eyes and forced her nervousness and her doubt aside, emptying herself of every thought but her body in relation to his, the walls and floor of the arena, and what she would do next, just as her master had taught her.

" A fine weapon you have, befitting the hand of a grunt, yet you do not have the look of one, at least, not yet, " she finally said, coolly. She saw him stiffen at her subtle insult, but she pressed on.

" Tell you what. A little sparring practice between us, here and now. I'll trust you to hold your blows as I hold mine, but the first in a position to deliver a fatal blow and the other loses. "

" A silly wager from a silly girl. What are the stakes if I were to consent to such a contest? " he leered, the intent in his voice would be obvious to even the most dense of minds.

" If you win, you'll find I can cook a decent boar, and the rest of the evening will be spent as you bid it, " she smiled slightly, putting an unfamiliar coy tone in her voice.

" However, if I win, you leave this gladiatorial pit with nothing but your axe. "

The male orc frowned slightly at this, thinking over her words before he finally caught her meaning. It was his turn to flush slightly and roll his shoulders uncomfortably at the thought of traveling the Drag with nothing but his bracers on. " Come now, " the sword-wielding female teased, " surely the thought of me tending a cook fire wearing nothing but this appeals to you, is worth a few moments of exercise to teach me a lesson in true orcish combat. "

The orc woman couldn't believe it was her own voice speaking these things, dripping these honeyed words of encouragement into this insufferably typical warrior's ears . She said these things as they were what were needed to be said, even though the thought of going through such actions made her skin crawl. That was why she must not lose. It wasn't her life on the line, but it was her pride, and her master's teachings. One was almost as bad as the other.

" Agreed, " he nodded finally, " if a little discipline is what you need to learn your place, so be it. "

" Who is this 'resource' that you mention then, one capable of all of these things yet is not on the front helping with all the other able-bodied grunts who risk their lives to protect our fledgling kingdom? " Gorchak sneered, his posture and words defiant and dismissive at the same time.

" My student. She is strong and skilled, my most promising protégé in decades. She will travel to Camp Aparaje and either help them defend it, or return to us with word of its demise. "

" One of _your_ students, I should have guessed. Only one such as her would be both given the best training available and still not be required to…wait a twitch, did you say 'she'? " the surly orc frowned deeply, reviewing the shadowed speaker's words. Others in the circle shifted and muttered at the word, one that the vast majority of them had trouble associating with warfare.

" I did, Gorchak, or are you unaware that more and more females are joining the ranks of the guard? Our enemies are legion, and while we are encouraging all families to large, we cannot meet the demands of keeping our various holdings properly manned without allowing females into the army. Indeed several of the Kor'kron elite standing nearby are women, or perhaps you were just thinking that orc boys are getting more slender and appealing as you yourself age, " the wizened orc informed the general with a rasping chuckle. Those brave enough allowed themselves a brief laugh as well at the easily-riled general's expense, while Gorchak himself trembled with anger and rested his hand on his axe haft, ready to draw.

" You dried up husk of a past era! The Burning Blade was a savage and chaotic force during the second war, their name and presence feared by both sides alike, but they have become perverted and hostile to the Horde now allowing any who hold their nihilistic values to join! You are the last ember of that insane breed of lone warriors, and I will rejoice openly when it is at last extinguished. " Gorchak had stood as he spoke, looking for all of Durotar like he would attempt to extinguish that spark here and now himself.

The blademaster chuckled again, but this time his laugh was muted by his closed mouth and his set jaw, glimmering eyes staring intently at the blusterous general. He too, had reached down to the handle of his weapon, his gently clasping hand activating the enchanted orb set into the bottom of the sword's grip, which flared to life with a swirling firestorm contained within a gem the size of a child's fist. The flickering light from within cast orange-red illuminaton over the blademaster's body while plunging his eyes into pools of shadow. Yellowed tusks shifted as the cross-legged orc spoke, barely opening his mouth as he did so.

" Return to your seat, general, I have no wish to draw steel so close to our warchief's chamber even if he is not present to see my naked blade. I do not have to be preached to about the Burning Blade's fall or our role in the wars, for I have borne witness to it all. I have conquered the demons both without and within and now can go into death with peace at long last in my heart. My day to die, however, is not today, and not by you. I have offered a solution to your problem and I have yet to hear any other present speak. Will you sit silent and let them, or will I have to find another way to still your tongue? "

The room was deathly quiet for a long time after that, even the elite guards nearby did not move or intervene. There duty was the protection the warchief, while this was merely a matter of honor between two warriors with a difference of opinion. Gorchak said nothing as he slowly returned to his seat, eyes still locked on the blademaster's, hand still gripping his axe haft.

" Now that that is behind us, " the aged shaman began, breaking the silence with his deep voice, " I would also like to know why we have not heard of this student of your until today, or why you think that she would be qualified to undertake such a daring mission. "

The blademaster's hand released its grip on his sword enough that the light from its pommel winked out as swiftly as a snuffed candle, once again plunging him into near darkness.

" A fair question, honored shaman. She is at the pinnacle of her training years, and must now seek what lessons the battlefield will teach her. I fear I may have allowed her to train too much, certainly not so much would have been spared in times of war, but while she is a warrior of the Horde, Shemara is also perhaps my last chance at leaving a legacy for other generations to know of our art. There are so very few of us left… " the blademaster finished quietly, quietly enough that Gorchak's satisfied snort could be heard easily.

" Simply 'Shemara'? Does this warrior not even have a blooded name yet? " the young general asked, confused.

The blademaster's head shook, barely perceptible amongst the gloom. " No. No blooded name yet. She has slain some quillboar and her and myself massacred a large camp of this so-called Burning Blade at Skull Rock to Orgrimmar's east, but other than that she has undertaken no official missions within the Horde's military structure. I realize that what I am saying requires more than a fair share of faith from you all, but if Orom Rendsteel has never lifted his blade and risked his life to uphold the sovereignty of the warchief in years past or now, then send another. "

More muted conversation started up in the wake left by his words, the matter being decided as the ancient blademaster rose stiffly to his feet, leaning on his sword scabbard to aid him.

" We have little to lose from at least trying. Reinforcements will have to be sent to Honor's Stand within the week anyways, if she fails, then support will only be days away regardless, " the shaman mused.

" Indeed. If she fails we lose nothing of value and Orom's word becomes next to worthless; if she succeeds, the settlement is saved without drawing away too much strength from the front lines, a fine solution, " Gorchak nodded with a bark of a laugh, still casting dark glares at the now standing blademaster.

" Rendsteel has served with honor and felled many foes, great and small. I trust his word when he says his student is ready for true battle, " Thrak said with a thump of his chest and a nod of deference to the standing orc. The others present gave their consent with words or with nods, the matter that had so vexed the council minutes before apparently resolved.

" This Shemara you speak of will serve as this council's emissary to Camp Aparaje and assess the situation there, either lending it her fighting strength, and if necessary, her life, or reporting of its fall. By the spirits let it be so, and let it be done, " the wizened shaman pronounced.

" By the spirits, let it be so, " most of the others echoed, Gorchak's voice little more than a whisper as he agreed with some resignation.

" I thank you all for your faith in me, my teachings, and my student. She will return victorious or not at all. I will go and tell her immediately that she is to make preparations to leave, " Orom said solemnly, bowing at the waist towards the seated council members and with a somewhat stiff but measured pace the blademaster left the fire-lit chamber.

The large orc took a few practice swings, loosening up his shoulder joint, switching hands with a deftness that spoke volumes about the Horde training regime. So he wasn't all just bluster. Shemara did her best to push aside her mounting doubts, remembering her training and remembering what was at stake. The smaller orc kept her steps small and measured, her body still, her intense practice before making her legs burn with fatigue, trying to conserve her energy for her own attacks, which would have to be quick, efficient, and soon.

The massive axe slashed horizontally, quickly reversing back for a second, hoping to bat aside her lighter weapon and open up her defenses enough to set up for a lethal chop downwards, but she instead backed up and let her sword lightly twist the attacks away. The male orc hacked at her again, downwards and angled from right to left, but did not over-extended himself as she had hoped, his swing controlled. Shemara twisted to the left, letting the weapon sweep past her, her return stab little more than a feint. The axe then swept sideways, batting aside her sword and stabbing forward, attempting to strike with the spear-like blade on the top end of the haft. The apprentice blademaster began to wonder if her opponent was pulling his strikes or not, the tip of the blade scoring a thin line of blood across her bare abdomen, having to twist her body around to the other side to avoid the stab. Her curved blade lashed out horizontally, her swing made awkward by her position, yet was still successful in making a small cut across the much larger orc's bicep. The grunt looked to the tiny wound and snorted, a leering smile on his brutish face.

" That the best you can do? "

" It's only a tiny little sword don't forget. That giant axe of yours hasn't done much better, " Shemara countered, the cut on her belly stinging lightly as sweat touched it.

" Just getting warmed up, my swings will be much faster soon. I hope for your sake you don't stumble too badly or I may not be able to pull my strike in time to avoid killing you, " he shrugged, his face deadly serious now as he refocused his mind on the battle.

There was nothing held back in his swings now, broad horizontal sweeps that whistled through the air with lethal intent. Even the sturdiest armor and strongest shield-arm would eventually give under all of that force, and Shemara had neither, forced to duck and dodge as her place in the battle became more hazardous with each passing moment. Normally, she would have let the warrior swing himself into exhaustion, always turning, side-stepping and otherwise avoiding his strikes, but she was near collapse herself, and could not afford to wait for him to tire.

A plan came to mind as a return strike of her own was cast aside with enough force to feel as if her arm would be torn from its socket, crystallizing in her mind as her eyes blurred with tears of pain. Exploit his mind if his body was too powerful. He had seen her stumble earlier, and was likely feeling quite confident right now, so he would likely fall for such a ruse. The alternative…well, Shemara pushed that from her mind and summoned up the small bit of magic she carried within her, that hours of meditation and soul-searching had merited the young warrior. Attempting to parry another blow that was easily tossed clear the female orc grunted in pain, staggering in the direction that he had thrown her blade, her feet scrambling to find a purchase on the sandy arena floor. Her body blurred, something that could easily be mistaken for a trick of the light, just before she finally fell, landing on all fours turned slightly away from her attacker, giving him ample opportunity to admire her barely-clothed form and to land what could be a fatal blow, likely almost cleaving her in two if his axe descended upon her full force.

" This fight is over! " he roared triumphantly, his axe swinging down and then slowing rapidly to a stop mere inches from her unprotected back. " Perhaps I should make you walk to my dwelling with nothing but your little sword to cover you, for daring to make such a wager with a true warrior of…the… " the soon-to-be grunt began, laughing, his blade still menacing her, but his sentence lost its bluster and came to a stammering halt as he felt cold steel slide along his bare chest and the feeling of a body pressed against his back.

Incredulous, the male orc watched as the Shemara before him looked over her shoulder at him and winked coyly before fading out of existence while the very real Shemara stood on her tip-toes behind him, the dull side of her blade pressed across his torso, left hand gripping her sword like a dagger and her right hand palm-down on the pommel to aid it in what would have been a fatal thrust to the side of his neck. Both said nothing for a time, breathing deeply, almost intimate in their closeness, but finally the stunned grunt spoke, tusks bared in anger.

" A stinking trick! No true warrior of the Horde would use _magic_ to fight! "

" Hmm, I see. Well I guess that makes every shaman no true warrior of the Horde as well, including Thrall. I'd like to be there when you, not even a grunt, tells him so, " Shemara responded coolly, not moving from her position even though her calves were beginning to knot painfully.

" This is not the magic of the spirits, merely some gutter spellcraft barely worthy of a night elf, " the male orc snorted in disgust, looking over his shoulder at her.

" A warrior brings all their weapons to the battlefield, some of mine just happen to be sheathed within my mind. Now, do you concede or will I have to convince you that you lost in a more painful manner? " she asked with a tired sigh.

He said nothing, instead tossing his axe to the ground forcefully and slumping his shoulders.

Thankful that she could finally relax Shemara lowered herself to the flats of her feet and withdrew her sword from his chest, drawing it over the shoulder it was angled down from. Wanting to be free of the sweat, grime and his likely still probing eyes Shemara paced over and, angling her body towards him and crouching, retrieved her sheath, sliding her blade into it silently. Letting out a deep gust of air she began to walk towards the arena door, passing by him close enough that his strong yet not unpleasant scent reached her nostrils once again. As she passed by him her sword slipped out of its sheath yet again, sliding with one sure stroke along the small of his back, slicing through the leather hem of his kilt and sending the heavy garment to the sandy ground with a light 'thump'. Lightning-fast, the flat of the curved blade also slapped him across his backside before returning to the stiff leather sheath, eliciting a yelp from the shocked warrior and an unseen grin on Shemara's face as she left the arena with only the tiniest of backward glances.

After donning a simple robe tied at the waist with a rough-spun rope belt Shemaa padded, still bare-foot, into the desert sun, her feet rapidly warming as they strode across the sun-baked stones that made up the street. It was as a green recruit that she had last worn sandals to guard her soles against the near-blistering heat of the public walkways, her feet having become as tough and insensitive as shoe leather from endless hours walking, running and training barefoot. Just another sign that she was not who she was only a few short years ago, no longer the shy woman destined for a life of domestic chores and breeding, but not quite the determined and skilled warrior she knew she was going to become. The old Shemara certainly wouldn't have used her barely-clothed body to distract a warrior in a duel, and while she could certainly appreciate the rise in her skill which had allowed her to defeat a combatant several times her size, she was a little concerned with the brash, wild side of her that seemed to be emerging alongside it. Letting out a short, quick breath of irritation the young warrior decided that she would dwell on it no longer for the moment, she needed a long bath in a hot spring and a hearty meal before she would feel ready to tackle anything more demanding than walking.

The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly pricked up, and without really knowing why she cast a glance over her right shoulder, looking to see if someone was following her. She saw no one within any distance that would make her feel so, only a few pedestrians within view, all keeping to the shadows to avoid the glare of the sun. Turning her head back her breath caught in her throat and her entire body stiffened as an unexpected but familiar voice spoke up.

" Even exhausted and apparently troubled you follow your instincts, you have come a long way, my student, " the aged voice of her mentor observed as his body melded into view beside her, keeping pace.

" I still did not sense you, and if you were an assassin I would be dead now, " she countered, too tired to put much conviction in her voice.

" True I suppose, but every warrior has his or her limits, and after defending your honor against that grunt I'm not too surprised you would lack the mental focus needed to spot someone like me. You used the Ogre-slayer technique on him I noticed, quite well executed too, cloud his sight first and create an illusionary double second, then sneak behind him while he is focused on the false image. "

Shemara shrugged, not taking her eyes off her destination.

" He was quite…strapping, so I figured it was an appropriate choice, I was just glad it worked, I had a fair bit at stake, " Shemara responded quietly, her mind slipping back into the concerns she thought she had abandoned moments prior.

" I still have much to learn. "

" There is much yet to learn, my student, but they will not be taught by me, nor within the safety of Orgrimmar's walls, " her master corrected, her words making the younger of the two slow to a stop, her mouth partially agape in disbelief as she turned to face him.

" But, I have so much further yet to go, I only just barely won and… " Shemara protested.

" Sometimes 'just barely' is all that we can hope for, and we both knew that this day would come. I cannot shelter you under my aged wing any longer, you must begin earning your keep as a warrior of the new Horde and take what I have taught you to our enemies. "

At least a half dozen more protests flooded the orc woman's mind but they each, in turn, were deflected by the inescapable truth that he was right. Her training was more extensive and longer-lasting than any expect perhaps the shamans, who were still required to pull guard duty and participate in raids while they learned to open themselves to the spirit world. She would have to go. Then, she struck upon a thought, regarding her mentor carefully as she spoke.

" You have just returned from a warlord meeting, haven't you? I can think of little else that would prompt such a sudden urgency to get me into the field. I assume my posting has something to do with the centaur raids, so when do I leave for the Crossroads? " she asked. She hoped, even though she hated herself for thinking it, that her master had not agreed to send her to the front to defend his pride against the more critical among the council.

" You leave tomorrow morning, but the Crossroads will not be your ultimate destination, merely a stopping point. "

Shemara frowned, puzzled. She was sure that she would be aiding in the defense of the trading hub…unless there was something more suited to a small group or individual to accomplish. An assassination, perhaps?

" I assume you are familiar with Camp Aparaje? " her mentor asked, preempting her next question. Shemara had to think for some time to conjure up the name in her mind. It was a small camp, little more than a way station on the road to Sun Rock Retreat, and she said as much.

" Correct for the most part, and while it is small in comparison to the Crossroads the council feels that it is important enough to check on in these times of great strife, where small communities can easily be cut off and destroyed by centaur war bands. "

" On foot it will take me nearly a week to travel there, and that is under ideal conditions, and roving warbands of centaur hardly qualifies at such, " Shemara pointed out.

" I believe the council has made a wing rider available to you. He will get you to the Crossroads, but beyond that the centaur archers are far too thick to risk the beast and rider, " Orom responded calmly, beginning to walk again with a unhurried stride. The orc female moved to keep beside him, but found she had nothing else to say. Her master took up the slack in the dialogue, leaving her with these parting words as he turned down a side street and began to walk away from her;

" I advise you take a long bath and enjoy a hearty meal, it may be some time before you have access to either again. I have faith in you, my student, but the most important person that should have faith in you is yourself. We will meet again, the spirits tell me this. "

Shemara could only watch motionless as her teacher moved further and further away, suddenly feeling very alone and abandoned. Her mind conspired against her, telling her that she was not prepared for the rigors of life outside the walls of Orgrimmar, that she would fail not only herself, but the stern yet kind master who had taught her so much and elevated her above becoming just another orc mother of sons destined for war. Clenching her free hand into a fist and gripping the sheath of her sword in frustration and anger the young blademaster began to walk hurriedly from the spot she had been rooted to, making her way towards her small quarters on the Drag. She would do as he suggested for now at least, and take things as they came after that.

She had no other choice.


End file.
